Intrepid

Chapter Two -- The Unattainable
Wednesday, October 19, 1977

Regulus looked at the statue in front of him with a face that implied that it might have been a particularly disgusting flobberworm.

The placard at the base of the plinth read, "The Brethren of Rhyfeddon" in proud, bold letters, the sort to make whoever happened to be reading them wonder why anyone would be proud of the frankly interesting assortment of brethren.

The four figures that had inspired the statue had a habit of popping up in wizard folklore, which was fare more savage and impossible to follow than the Muggle kind. Ogden the Odd was the leader, cast in copper, green with age, clutching a lantern held aloft. For more than one reason, Regulus decided, it was fortunate that the lantern didn't work -- primarily, because the lack of real lighting left this dead-end section of the hallway properly gloomy, and secondly, because Ogden the Odd's face was completely grotesque. Why his compatriots had let him hold the lantern in the first place was the real mystery.

Regulus kept his eyes away from Ogden's face and tried to think of some reason to be at this particular end of the corridor, nixing the idea that someone was actually stalking him -- or, as claimed, needed help.

He was certainly -- decidedly! -- not avoiding it. Looking, that was. Under Callaghan's foot. He could have come and done it any time today, if he'd wanted to. Which he hadn't. Probably.

He sucked in a long, slow breath. Maybe there would be nothing there; after all, this could be a joke. Ha, and he'd fallen for it!

He cast a look over his shoulder to make sure no one was around to laugh.

Callaghan the Curious -- wasn't he always the second in line? Lots of hair, too -- the one that was now balanced, upright, on the balls of his feet?

Instead of wasting more time deliberating whether or not his next action would look foolish, he swayed a bit closer to the statue. Very carefully.

Nothing attacked him.

Well.

He slipped his hand behind the grimy copper. His fingers searched for something there, anything there, coming back very dirty and very empty.

This was such a bother.

All right, the other foot, where was it? The base of the statue was massive -- he couldn't reach the right foot, pushed into the alcove as far back as it was. What was he going to have to do, shove himself back there and grope around in the dark until he found what he was looking for? He had other things to do, like homework -- not that he actually did his homework, but Regulus survived on excuses -- he didn't have to waste his time around here getting filthy for no reason. It was probably a joke anyway.

It was a pity that Callaghan wasn't the only curious one.

Abandoning any pretence of caution (and sanity, he was sure to reflect later), he let his backpack plunge to the floor and heaved himself into the alcove behind the massive sculpture. It was a rather tighter fit than he would have liked, but there it was, he'd done it.

It wasn't so bad back here. There was probably room for another person. Could anyone have seen in from the outside? Probably not, Callaghan's fluffy tail was in the way -- wait, tail?

No getting distracted!

Resolutely, he crawled to Callaghan's other foot, his hands wavering in the darkness in front of him. Someone's leg...a foot! No, wrong foot. Over here, though, this was the one...

His fingers grazed something, something a good deal softer than metal. His palm crumpled over a neatly folded parchment square. At last, his prize!

Making careful movements toward the edge of the statue, he lowered himself to the floor. No one in sight. His robes were quite dusty, he noted with extreme distaste -- an impatient "Scourgify" cleaned that up.

He ripped the note open with greedy hands. It was written with as much care as the first, but this covered up most of the page in the same trail of quick purple ink.

Regulus, it read, in frail and faded penmanship.

I apologise for being so vague. If it were possible to tell you everything, I would, but there are some things that you could never understand.

As I said before, I need information. Choose to follow my instructions, and I will make things very advantageous for you.

I don't know if you will ever read this, or write it off as a joke, or perhaps never know of it at all. I don't know anything about you; it's frustrating to ask such help of a stranger.

If you have any intentions of giving me that help, I ask that you write a reply and hide it in the same spot. I will not fail to reply as soon as possible.

I also ask for you to not talk of this letter, even to those you trust most. One stray word of yours could ruin things completely.

Sincerely,

A friend.

And then, very suddenly, he had no idea what to do. Someone was stalking him. And why?

Casting a bemused glance around -- at the statue, down the hall, at the dark and shadowed walls -- he folded the letter again, slipped it into his pocket, and picked up his bag. He would just forget about it. It was the only thing that seemed possible.

He made it about ten steps down the hallway.

There was a conjunction there, a long and empty corridor stretching off to the right and a bright window on the left. That was the point where his feet inexplicably stopped moving and left him stranded.

He couldn't just ignore this.

Say that this someone was actually in trouble. Say that he was in trouble; wouldn't it be advantageous to do something about it now? Who needed specifics when there was the threat of danger?

Oh, but what if it was a lie, after all? Or even worse -- this person could be dangerous. How much information did the anonymous psychopath need?

There was perhaps no harm in replying. Maybe just once, even, to get a feel for what they wanted.

Was he willing to do that?

Decisively, he spun on his heel and marched back to the statue. He opened his bag and felt around for a quill and parchment, fumbling with the bottle of ink as he sat down resolutely at the base of the statue.

Balancing the parchment on his knees, he quickly loaded his ink and scribbled his message onto the page.

Hello.

For some reason, that really didn't seem like enough.

I don't know why you're writing to me, he scrawled, well aware that his handwriting was barely discernible through his haste, and you seem intent on not telling me what you want. I don't have time for that. I don't care about helping you.

That was true; how was he supposed to give some anonymous stranger a bit of sympathy when they weren't civil enough to even come out and ask for something specific?

Just tell me what you want, and then leave me alone.

My life is too sodding complicated already.

-----

Bellatrix had been sitting in the library for twenty minutes before Bourdelet bothered to show up.

It was hardly a promising start, Bellatrix noted as she watched the girl follow some invisible and circuitous path toward the table. If Bourdelet was determined to mess this up, it was an easily achievable goal. Closing the Herbology textbook she'd been revising with, Bellatrix raised her eyebrows as Bourdelet stopped, stock-still, a few feet from the table.

"Own a watch, Madeleine?"

"No," said Bourdelet simply, setting herself carefully on the edge of her chair. She looked much more at ease than she had the previous day, but not an ounce more productive. "I hope you haven't been waiting long," she said generously, resting her elbows lightly on the tabletop.

Is that your new tactic, wondered Bellatrix, feining indifference?

It wouldn’t work. They’d spent over six years in the same dormitory -- that history alone would have been enough to make Madeleine Bourdelet as clear as a bad Remembrall.

"Don't worry about it," suggested Bellatrix, her eyes coming to rest on the other girl's empty hands. "Did you even bring your Arithmancy?"

The battered text was procured nonchalantly from the small satchel slung over her shoulder. "You thought I'd forgotten it," Bourdelet deduced. It wasn't a question.

"Your track record isn't stellar," said Bella. Her own hands astonished her by trembling slightly when she moved her Herbology aside; she occupied them by rearranging the parchment she had laid out and getting her quill ready. "Now. Arithmancy."

"Fine," said Bourdelet, her eyes examining the table.

"We'll need a demonstration of basic numerology."

"I think Claire still has a copy of the third-year curriculum, that was only last year for her," said Bourdelet in a tone that suggested she wasn't even slightly interested in the conversation. "She'll probably still have the number chart."

"Good. You'll get it from her?"

"If you think we'll need it."

"Yes," said Bellatrix, scribbling this down on the parchment. "Calculating spells, as well. We can go through the indexes of our texts and find the important ones."

"Mm hmm."

She was, apparently, lost in thought. Undoubtedly a deliberate attempt at being frustrating. Then again, Bella's patience had never been particularly outstanding, and Bourdelet had a habit of running through it faster than most.

"What is it?" snapped Bella irritably, picking up her quill and glaring at the girl across from her, whose eyebrows quirked.

"Nothing. Keep going."

"I'm out of ideas," said Bella, eyeing her warily. "It's your turn."

"Oh," said Bourdelet, snapping upright. "Mauve," she said enthusiastically. "For the table cloth, I mean. It'll be brighter than the others and that'll draw attention. We'll bribe some third years into watching it all night, tell Amburn that it's for them to feel included, and then you've got your Hallowe'en back. Better?"

"Yes," said Bellatrix, her mouth pulling outwards from the corners, just the merest bit.

"What are you going to be doing?" asked Bourdelet in a surprisingly unobtrusive manner, her eyes drifting off to the right.

"On Hallowe'en?" asked Bella, examining her parchment again.

"Yeah."

"I don't know," she answered automatically. "Rodolphus wanted to go into Hogsmeade, but I think we'll do that on Fri--" She stopped, caught herself. "Why?"

Bourdelet’s shoulders wobbled in a thin shrug. "Why not? We could do something."

"I make a point of not 'doing things' with people that betray me, Bourdelet," said Bellatrix, trying very hard to keep expression from her voice.

Bourdelet's eyes lingered unconvincingly on the tabletop. "I didn't betray you, Bella."

Bellatrix made a face indicating that she severely doubted that, but muttered, very quickly, "Fine. Arithmancy."

"Right," said Bourdelet, looking even more deflated, "Arithmancy."

Bellatrix forced her train of thought back on track, which was much more difficult to do than she had anticipated. Bourdelet twiddled her thumbs.

"If you don't have anything else to contribute," said Bellatrix acidly, "Then you might as well leave."

"Oh," said Bourdelet, as though this had just occurred to her, "Yes, that's right."

Without another word she hopped up from the table and disappeared behind a long row of bookshelves. Stalked off to some other part of the library, probably -- what did the antisocial do with their free time?

Bella dismissed that question and turned her head back to Arithmancy, once and for all.

In the Hogwarts library, there was a fairly constant ratio of one person pretending to study for every two people who actually were. Since Regulus Black's definitive planning skills barely extended past what he would do tomorrow afternoon, he never seemed to have intentions of actually doing work.

Father complained that Regulus lacked proper Slytherin ambition. Regulus argued that he had plenty of ambition, he just wasn't sure what he wanted to use it on.

At any rate, Regulus was quite comfortable seated behind a large astronomy textbook which was opened to a fairly random page, contemplating exactly what he was going to do about these letters.

The thing about secrets was that there always seemed to be some excuse for telling them.

The real problem was deciding whether or not this was an acceptable secret to tell.

Regulus contemplated this chain of logic for a bit longer over his astronomy book, remembering to flip the page over every once in a while to maintain the charade for Madam Pince. But within five minutes, it seemed, Regulus' contemplating and page-turning received a rude interruption in the form of a fourth-year girl who came trotting up to his table, looking quite pleased with herself as she tapped him on the shoulder.

It was Leigh Harrington. Not that he actually knew her -- Leigh Harrington was one of those people that could hardly walk to class without making sure she was noticed.

Her popularity was painfully intentional. The life of a teenage girl had always appeared secretive and complicated; there was twice as much smug and arrogant concealment with Leigh. She never walked into a room, but floated instead, her shoulders thrown back and her head lifted at the chin with definitive jauntiness.

At the moment, Leigh was shifting her weight to one foot, tucking the loose strands of her black hair behind an ear, and pinching her lips together as if she had something important to say.

Something important turned out to be: "Erm -- Hi!"

"Oh," said Regulus, "Uhem. I mean, hello!"

Anguish.

Leigh didn't notice this at all, or if she did, didn't care. "Sorry to interrupt," she continued happily, "but have you by any chance seen a scarf lying around here? I was at this table earlier today, during break, cramming for a Charms exam," she explained unnecessarily, peering over the table and squatting slightly to look down the row of chairs. "And now Claire wants to go outside to watch Edmund Brackis practise Quidditch..."

Regulus spent a split second coming up with the clever plan of staring at his feet, which he did for a moment until he saw the edge of a blue piece of cloth sticking out from beneath the chair next to him. His hand dove for it, quickly, pulling up a knitted bronze-and-blue scarf, complete with tassels and the embroidered letters, "LMH".

"Is this it?" he managed, "Ravenclaw?"

"Oh, yes, thank you!" said Leigh brightly, taking the scarf from him and spending a moment situating it around her neck, making sure to sweep her hair out again. "Well," she said absently, "I suppose I might see you later."

Regulus decided, privately, that he would look forward to that occurrence. Instead of announcing that, he said, in a rather unnatural voice, "Yeah, I suppose so."

It was interesting, though, that after Leigh scooted back out the library door, Regulus had a much more difficult time with his contemplation of letters.

-----

Regulus had made up his mind to tell Narcissa about the letters by the time that Astronomy rolled around. In truth, it was partly to see how she felt about the situation but mostly because she had spent the entire day in a preoccupied silence, broken only when necessary or whenever she felt the need to say something snide about Phoebus Ahlman.

Astronomy class was a weekly, dreary, bleary-eyed affair, held in the tall and draughty chamber at the top of the tallest tower. Professor Lucent had a uniquely vexing habit of stalking slowly around the room to keep everyone on task, which made off-topic conversations twice as difficult.

Tonight, Regulus couldn't afford such an interruption.

Narcissa was working next to him, but deeply immersed in the miserably crooked diagram etched on her parchment.

A quick glance around the room assured that Lucent was on the other side of the room, patiently helping Eugene Finkley through his persistent protests that Aldebaran had simply vanished from the sky.

Regulus spun back around to face the large window.

"Narcissa--?"

"Hang on a minute, would you?" she said, picking up her telescope again and attempting to readjust it. "Where's that stupid..."

"If you're talking about Ahlman, 'Cissa, he's right over there."

Narcissa snorted. "No, I can't find beta Tauri."

"Your picture's lopsided," said Regulus helpfully.

She contracted the telescope with a snap and shot him a distinctly brittle look. "What were you saying, Regulus?"

"Oh yeah, that..."

It was dead ironic that the moment he was given his opportunity, he'd lost his conviction.

His brain was screaming for logic.

But what if...?

Narcissa looked at him expectantly for a minute, until an unwarranted comprehension dawned across her face. She narrowed her eyes and turned back to the window.

"If it's about Ahlman," she snapped, "don't even bother."

He breathed an involuntary sigh of relief.

Sarcastically, he intoned, "It wasn't, but you seem eager enough."

She utterly surprised him by proving him right. Without so much as a further prompting, she set her quill down and leaned toward him with a fierce whisper.

"It's about that potion," she said, under the pretence of examining Regulus' star chart. Was Lucent looking?

Narcissa continued anyway. "If Ahlman gets the Draught, he could use it to find out what we're doing. He could start watching us."

The thought of such a thing hadn't even crossed his mind. See what happened, he mused, when one spent so much time plotting?

As if to prove him right, Narcissa was still staring at his face with a maniacal glint in her eyes, looking frighteningly deranged.

Carefully, he said, "Well, what do we do to stop that? You already told him you'd make it, after all."

Narcissa paused. Swivelling to pick up her quill, she cast casual eyes down the parchment in front of her.

"We just have to stay away from whoever drinks the potion," she said matter-of-factly. "They'll the be the one Ahlman is watching."

"And who is that?"

Before Narcissa could reply, they were abruptly interrupted when Lucent made a dry coughing noise in the back of her throat, a none-too-well-disguised warning. They smiled at her sheepishly.

A moment or two passed in silence, as Lucent inspected their charts, her head looming over their shoulders. Finding nothing substantial to complain about (though her eyes did linger on Narcissa's lopsided Taurus), she pulled a perfunctory spin and swept away to find other students to harass.

Narcissa started whispering again, almost immediately.

"What do you mean, 'who is that'?" she hissed, pulling out her telescope again.

"Well, who's Ahlman feeding it to?"

"No one. He's selling it to somebody, and they're feeding it to someone else." Narcissa snorted. "Very hands-off, Phoebus is."

"Well," said Regulus with growing annoyance, "Who is he selling it to?"

"He'd never willingly tell us," she said in an offhand manner. "Unless, that is, you're planning on beating it out of him."

Regulus smiled hollowly. "You fancy a duel with Ahlman? No? Good choice. Remember what happened to poor Maddox--"

She winced involuntarily at the memory of their classmate's less-than-successful squabble with Ahlman the previous year. "Yes, I remember," she said, "so we won't beat it out of him."

"Well, you'll have to come up with something," said Regulus. He picked up his quill and resumed his star labelling. "How do you stay away from someone who has the power to betray your every move?"

Narcissa twisted her telescope restlessly. "I dunno. Will you ask Ahlman about it?"

"And say what?"

"Just tell him not to use it against us." She bit her lip. "He'd never agree to that, would he?"

"It's worth trying," said Regulus.

Lucent's shrill voice interrupted Narcissa's reply. "Back on task, you two. Five points from Slytherin -- it'll be ten if you carry on this way."

-----

It was no surprise that they were bombarded the minute they set foot out the door. A harassed-looking Phoebus Ahlman glanced cautiously backward at Professor Lucent, who was still gathering scrolls, before grabbing each of their arms and setting off down a nondescript side hallway at a remarkable pace.

"Where are we going?" asked Regulus, allowing himself to be led through the hallway without protest.

Phoebus ignored this question completely and poked his head around the corner. Finding the coast to be clear, rounded it.

"Phoebus," said Narcissa, in the menacing voice of one whose wrist was in danger of being pulled apart, "What are you doing?"

"I’m showing you your new laboratory, that's what. Stop talking. They'll hear you."

"Who'll hear us?"

"Shh!"

"I swear we've already been down this hallway. Are you sure you aren't lost?"

"Shut up."

"Phoebus--" started Narcissa

"Here it is," said Phoebus, cutting her off neatly. "Grace should be meeting us here..."

'Here' turned out to be a high-ceilinged chamber behind a plain wooden door, one that Regulus had never noticed before. Inside was the tall sweep of supporting arches, broad stone floor, and bright ochre light emanating from the studded torches that lined the room.

"Wow," said Regulus, completely floored.

Narcissa's eyebrows lifted neatly. "What is this?"

"A show of good faith from our buyer," replied Phoebus, strutting to the centre of the room where a scrubbed wooden table was set up with a small cauldron, burner, phial set, and more; potion ingredients sprawled across its surface. Sitting cross-legged on the floor was Grace, propped up on a poufy pillow and flipping determinedly through the potion book.

"What?" said Narcissa, stopping in mid-step. "We've already got a buyer?"

"A well-connected one," said Grace, who looked up from the aged text and flashed them a thin smile. "They told us about this place, and we're using it to make their potion. A lovely arrangement, wouldn't you say?"

"I don't get it," said Regulus, quite unnecessarily. "I've never seen this room before."

"Room of Requirement, something or other," said Phoebus, walking over to the table and examining its contents. "A room for anything you need at the moment. And yes, in case you were wondering, I do have extensive future plans for this place."

Narcissa looked sardonically unsurprised. "Phoebus," she said slowly, "I think we're all moving too fast. We don't have a potion yet, and already you've promised it to someone!"

"A matter of faith in you!" said Phoebus unconcernedly, setting himself down next to Grace.

"I can hardly believe this," snapped Narcissa, the remnants of her impressed surprise fading quickly.

"'Mazing," said Regulus vaguely.

"That's not what I meant!"

Phoebus shrugged. "Grace, pass the butterbeer."

"Are these scales solid gold?"

"Apparently we require only the best."

Grace looked pointedly at Narcissa. "Are you going to get started?"

"Wait," Narcissa gritted out, ignoring Grace completely. "Phoebus. We've got to talk to you."

With this, she sent a significant look at Regulus, who was busying himself with opening his own butterbeer. An across-the-room conference ensued, mostly containing Narcissa's furious gestures and much brow-furrowing on Regulus' part.

"Oh, yeah," he started, finally remembering her words earlier. He spun to face Phoebus. "You can't use this potion against us. You can't make us drink it, or use what anyone else sees against us."

Narcissa sighed, probably out of exasperation with this delivery.

"Okay," said Phoebus.

Narcissa did a double-take. "What?"

Phoebus looked amused. "I said, 'okay'. Common slang affirmative?"

"I know what you said!" retorted Narcissa. "It just seems a bit out of character for someone without a shred of respect for anyone else."

"Narcissa!" Phoebus set his butterbeer on the floor in front of him and brushed his hands off. "I'm not selling this potion to your enemies. I'm not out to get you. Other people, sure, but not you."

She looked mildly surprised, but mollified. "Really? You mean that?"

"Probably."

"So you'll help me with revenge, if I wanted you to?" asked Narcissa shrewdly, her eyes narrowing the slightest bit.

"Of course not," said Phoebus swiftly. He took a swig of butterbeer while Narcissa sighed in agitation. "You must understand," he said placatingly, "I'm doing this for my own good, not anyone else's."

Grace's eyebrows lifted slightly. "What about mine?"

"Well," said Phoebus generously, "maybe yours."

Narcissa interrupted with a rather obvious cough. "What do we have in the way of potion ingredients?"

"Most of what we need I brought in from the student stores," said Grace, rearranging a rack of crystal phials. "We have all but the Amphisbaena venom, I should think."

"Amphisbaena venom?" choked Narcissa, "Where do you want me to get it, Knockturn Alley?"

"We'll burn that bridge when we come to it," said Phoebus, evidently unconcerned.

"Erm," said Regulus uneasily, "You mean 'cross', don't you?"

"Probably."

Narcissa shook her head wearily. "I'm going to bed. We'll start tomorrow."

Phoebus shrugged. "If you're leaving, we might as well come along."

"We're staying," said Grace, with a small cough.

"What?"

"We should -- ah -- stay for a bit. To, y'know, make sure all the ingredients are in order. And stuff."

"Stuff?" said Phoebus quizzically. "Oh! Yes. Very important, that."

Narcissa rolled her eyes. "Let's go," she said, with a significant look at Regulus.

Following Narcissa around all day really did get tiresome, Regulus reflected, as he pulled himself up. He left his butterbeer on the table.

"You think they're snogging?" asked Narcissa as soon as the door shut behind them.

Regulus nearly tripped over his own feet. He had absolutely no desire to know about it, but before he could say so, something else hit him: they were on the seventh floor. So was the statue.

"I'll...meet you in the common room, all right?" said Regulus, looking for a plausible excuse. None came to mind readily.

Narcissa raised her eyebrows slightly. "What?"

He bit his lip, but composed his expression quickly. "Restroom," he said, and forced a small laugh. Honestly, was there any way to get rid of her for a few minutes?

"Oh," said Narcissa, smiling awkwardly. Evidently, she was buying it; her face was still preoccupied. "I'm just going to bed, then, so I'll see you in the morning...?"

"Right. Bye."

He stood uncomfortably in the middle of the hallway until she disappeared with a small wave around the corner; then, he spun around and headed back to the statue at the other end of the hallway.

Was there even a reply yet? It was worth a check, for all the good his nerves were doing him. Without even bothering to check that he was alone, he hoisted himself behind the statue and felt around for the parchment, eventually finding it when his fingers knocked it from behind Callaghan's foot.

Was it the same parchment he had placed there, or a different one? He couldn't tell. Crawling back into the light, he brushed himself off and held it up to the nearest torch, squinting...

It was a new one.

That information turned out to do very little for his nerves.

There was nothing left to lose by opening it.

Thoroughly frustrated, he ripped open the letter in anticipation of yet another vague and needy message, of something worse that was waiting for him around the proverbial corner.

Instead, there was a startling and impossible paragraph of that small and dainty handwriting, something perfectly simple that no one had bothered to tell him in recent history.

And it began,

I know how you feel.